Friend? Possibly
by Adurna Skulblaka
Summary: "The only comfort to him in this moment is the phone in his hand, which is annoyingly silent. Why won't Sherlock pick up? He usually does, especially when they're on a case. If he can't, he'll at least send a text. But he hasn't, and John's alone. Worryingly alone." The hound is in the room, somewhere, lurking. Little bit of Johnlock.


**Author's note: Well, this little idea was floating around in my head and wouldn't go away. Thought I'd write it up and see how it went.**

* * *

The door to the cage clatters shut behind John, and he pulls the sheet down over it to hide him from the hound. There's no question that it's the dreaded creature; what else could make that terrifying snarl? How else could the sound of claws click across the tiled floor?

The only comfort to him in this moment is the phone in his hand, which is annoyingly silent. Why won't Sherlock pick up? He usually does, especially when they're on a case. If he can't, he'll at least send a text. But he hasn't, and John's alone.

Worryingly alone.

John curls into a ball in the corner of the cage, his heart thumping frantically in fear. _It's here… it's in the room… The cage better hold if it attacks, oh, God, please…_ Realising his breathing is all too audible, he claps a hand over his mouth to keep it quiet. A sob tries to fight its way out of his throat, but he holds it back.

The shrill ring of his phone makes him jump and gasp with fear. John scrambles to find it and almost cries out with relief at the name on the screen: _Sherlock._ Hurriedly, he answers the call on the second ring. If the sound alerted the hound… if it heard…

"It's here…" he breathes into the phone, his hands shaking. "It's in here with me…"

Sherlock's voice, however, is frighteningly loud, even through the sound of his phone. "Where are you?"

Abandoning the urge to tell the detective to _shut the hell up_, he hisses, "Get me out, Sherlock. _You have got to get me out._ The big lab, the lab that we first saw…"

A low growl echoes off of the walls, causing John to cringe back into the metal bars behind him and whimper slightly. He covers his mouth again, but the damage is done. If the hound hasn't decided on his location already, then it has now.

"John?" his friend asks urgently. "John?"

The doctor lowers his hand and whispers, "Now, Sherlock. _Please._"

"Alright, I'll find you. Keep talking."

"I can't. It'll hear me."

"_Keep talking._ What are you seeing?"

John leans forward, looking past the sheet into the lab. He can just see the shapes of the shiny white tables through the gloom, but other than that… nothing. It's too dark to pick out anything else.

"John?"

Almost as if in response, an angry snarl meets John's ears.

"Yes, I'm here," he says softly, eyes wide.

"What can you see?" Sherlock insists.

It isn't odd that Sherlock wants to know this badly. The hound supposedly killed the father of a young man, and it's presence, while rumoured, has made itself known ever since. Henry Knight – the person who claimed to have seen it rip his father to pieces – brought it to Sherlock's attention. It makes sense that he would want to know if it was there.

That doesn't make the thought any more comforting to John.

He moves onto his hands and knees, and crawls over to the door to look into the lab again. Once again, his searching is fruitless. "I don't know… I don't know, but I can hear it."

Another growl, louder than the last.

"_Did you hear that?_" John hisses into the phone.

"Stay calm," Sherlock replies in what is supposed to be a soothing voice, but doesn't really work. "Stay calm. Can you see it?" After a brief pause, he repeats, "Can you _see_ it?"

"No," John murmurs, "I can…" Slowly, trying not to make any sudden movements, he straightens and moves back to the corner, horror written over his face. "I can see it…"

He stares ahead in terror as a shadow moves behind the sheet. "It's here…" he says, his voice flat. Sherlock doesn't answer. The creature behind the curtain shifts again, releasing another threatening snarl. "It's here…"

John swallows the yell rising in his throat. Death is metres away. Any second now, it will tear through the bars and rip him to shreds, just like Henry's father. He won't see lovely old Mrs. Hudson again, or Lestrade, or annoying yet endearing Sherlock...

But then the sheet is flung upwards, revealing a familiar thin face. "Are you alright?" Sherlock asks worriedly. He opens the door of the cage and goes inside to kneel beside John. As the detective places a hand on John's shoulder, the doctor's eyes widen in bewilderment. "John…?" Sherlock adds when his friend doesn't answer.

"Jesus Christ…"

Surprising them both, John lurches forwards and wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck tightly. It is with a stab of guilt that Sherlock realises the other man is shaking. Almost hesitantly, he enfolds John in a comforting hug.

"Oh, God, Sherlock…" Realising he's safe, John lifts his head and glances around the lab. Now that it's lit, he can clearly see that there's nowhere for a hound to hide, which means…

It wasn't there in the first place.

"But…" he splutters, "I _saw_ it… It was here, I swear… It must…" John pushes himself back from Sherlock slightly to get a better look, his voice becoming high pitched with stress. "Did… did you… did you see it? You must have!"

"It's alright, it's ok now," Sherlock says quietly. He places a little bit of pressure on John's shoulders, and he gratefully returns to the comforting circle of the detective's arms. John spares a small part of his confused and scared mind to wonder just _why_ Sherlock is being so affectionate, but he brushes it off. He's familiar and real and _there._

"It's not ok," John hisses into Sherlock's shoulder. "It's not ok! I saw it! I was wrong!"

"Well, let's not jump to conclusions."

_How can he be so calm?!_ John doesn't get it. It's all so strange. The hound, Sherlock's actions…

_What the bloody hell is going on?_

"… What?"

"What did you see?"

_This again?_ Now slightly calmer, John can think back on the past ten minutes or so without panicking – much. "I saw the hound."

"Huge; red eyes?"

"Yes."

"Glowing?"

"Yes."

"No."

"What?"

"I made up the bit about glowing," Sherlock admits. "You saw what you expected to see because I _told _you. You have been drugged. We have _all_ been drugged."

"Drugged?" John repeats the word as if it is foreign to him.

"Yes. I understand it all now." Sherlock sighs; John feels his breath against the back of his head. "When you're ready, we'll leave. We have something to do."

"What is it?"

"That can wait until you've calmed down."

The silence is broken only by John's breathing slowing until it is normal again, yet his mind still spins with the realisation that the hound _wasn't there._ He also notices that he and Sherlock are still holding each other, one seeking comfort and the other giving it.

And it's odd. Really odd. Since when does Sherlock give out hugs? Not that he's ungrateful, or anything. John is glad that the detective is there; no doubt he wouldn't have lasted much longer without his friend's presence.

John clears his throat and stands up, bowing so his back doesn't touch the bars that make up the roof of the cage. "Thanks."

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. In a fluid movement he gets to his feet as well, but he has to stoop more than the doctor, due to his height. "Is there something you want to say, John?"

_Damn him,_ he thinks bitterly, before muttering, "Er… I'm… _happy_ you stayed. Even though you're a bit of an arse, you're a good friend."

Sherlock smirks, mischief dancing in his eyes. "Friend? Possibly."

And leaving John to wonder at the implications behind his reply, Sherlock ducks out of the cage.


End file.
